


fill my lungs with the sound

by alexanger



Series: i forget sometimes just how to breathe [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Chronic Illness, Hurt Some Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 04:20:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12763020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: Thomas crosses to the door. He pauses in the doorway, then looks back and says, “I love you.”James doesn't even bother to look at him.So he leaves. What else can he do?





	fill my lungs with the sound

“Jemmy,” Thomas says. 

James grunts and rolls over. 

“Jermite,” Thomas tries. “JARVIS. Jangle. Jigglypuff. Wake up. Time for pills.”

“No pills,” mumbles James. He puts his arm across his face and drags it down until his hand is covering his eyes. 

“Yes pills,” Thomas insists.

James pauses, as if pondering his options. “Okay, then all the pills,” he counters. 

“You can have four,” says Thomas. 

“Mm. Fine.” James struggles until he's sitting up, and then accepts a handful of tablets and a glass of water from Thomas. “What time is it?” 

“It's like nine AM,” Thomas tells him, sitting on the edge of the bed. He's in his pajamas, a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with a thoroughly chewed collar. “You can go back to sleep after your meds, if you want, but I think it'd be good for you to get up and do stuff.” 

“Like what?” James tosses the pills into his mouth, then gulps down the entire glass of water. A few drops trickle down from the corner of his mouth into the scruff on his chin. 

“Like, we could go see a movie,” Thomas suggests. “Or we could go for a walk - don't look at me like that, we can rent a wheelchair and I'll push you. Or we could go to a pet store and pet the puppies -” 

“I'm allergic,” says James.

“Or we could just sit around all day and shoot my ideas down.” He meant it as a joke but the moment the words are out of Thomas’ mouth, he realizes his tone must have been off, because James is frowning and shaking his head. 

“You're unbearable lately,” says James. 

“I'm sorry?” Thomas asks. He frowns back at James - or, at least, he thinks he does. It's suddenly hard to keep track of what his face is doing. He makes an effort to turn down the corners of his mouth, to furrow his brow, to squint just a little. Whatever it looks like, it's probably close enough. 

“You're so fucking superior,” James snaps. “You act like you're the expert on everything, when you have no idea what shit is like for me. It's not as simple as going outside and petting a puppy. Fresh air and dog dander won't fucking cure my depression.”

“I didn't ever say it would, but your therapist says that going out and doing things -”

“Fuck my therapist!” James snarls.

“She works really hard,” Thomas says. He knows his voice is too low but can't seem to make it any louder. “She's doing the best she can with you, and that's saying something, considering how shitty you've gotten all of a sudden.”

“Me?” asks James. “I'm the shitty one?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Thomas tells him. “You freak out over the smallest things and I can't remember the last time you even smiled. You're just pissed all the time. How do you think I feel about that?” 

“I don't really  _ care  _ how you feel. You're not the one suffering,” James says. 

“You're wrong. I'm suffering too.” Thomas puts his hands to his head and tangles his fingers in his hair. “I hate seeing you like this. It's like you're not yourself anymore and you get mad at me for the smallest things -”

“I’m not the one with the problem. You're just being really fucking annoying lately,” says James. 

“I can't talk to you like this. I just came in to give you your meds and see how you're doing and you jump down my throat -” 

“Don't act all innocent, you came in here and started telling me I'm not trying hard enough for you -” 

“Christ, James, do you even listen to yourself?” Thomas shouts. “Where did this victim complex come from?” 

“Don't yell at me.” James says this softly, a note of danger in his voice. “I'm not someone you should be fucking with.”

“I'm going out.” Thomas stands, struggles out of his pajamas, and throws on pants and a shirt from the top of the laundry hamper. 

“Wait,” says James, and suddenly there's a note of fear in his voice. “Who's gonna take me to therapy if you're out?”

Thomas would love to say  _ figure it out, asshole.  _ He would  _ love  _ to see the look on James’ face. But he holds back, biting the words off before they can reach his lips. “I'll be back before then,” he says. “I'm still gonna take you. Nice to know you think that little of me, though. Feels great to know you think I'll just let you suffer.”

James doesn't say anything. He just glowers at Thomas. 

Thomas crosses to the door. He pauses in the doorway, then looks back and says, “I love you.”

James doesn't even bother to look at him. 

So he leaves. What else can he do?

 

* * *

 

Thomas kicks his heel against the couch he’s sitting on. The other is tucked up underneath him. He doesn’t feel safe with both feet on the floor - it’s strange to have them planted. 

“Tell me more about your argument with James,” says George.

“He just kept escalating,” says Thomas. “Like, okay, I gave him his meds, right? And then I started suggesting we should, like, go out and do stuff. And he just flipped his shit at me. It’s not  _ my _ fault that his brain is all fucked up but I’m the one who has to deal with his little freak outs! What am I supposed to do?”

“I think,” says George, “that the two of you should come in for some sessions together.”

“I don’t want to,” Thomas mumbles.

“Chronic and mental illness can cause a big rift between people.” George picks up the box of tissues on the side table and offers it to Thomas, who’s scrubbing at his cheeks with the heels of his hands. “And it’s not the fault of either party that these things are happening. Yes, we all exhibit behaviour that we dislike, but that’s often an understandable reaction to the out of control things that are happening. It’s the job of people like me to make sure we can control that behaviour and make things a little easier on you.”

“Okay, but can you make him stop being such a fucking asshole?” Thomas asks.

“Thomas,” George says. It’s not a warning, not quite, but it’s approaching one.

“Sorry.” Thomas cracks his knuckles, then continues pressing on his fingers. He knows they won’t crack again for a little while and the motion hurts but it’s repetitive and soothing.

“I think the two of you should come in together. I can spend some time with the both of you mediating a discussion, and if we need to progress beyond that - like if there’s a deeper issue - we can find another therapist, someone who will be impartial, to go from there.”

“I don’t want another therapist,” Thomas says, and he yanks a tissue from the box and rubs his eyes roughly with it. “I’m really tired of meeting all these new people who think they know best. I took care of Jemmy for years, didn’t I?  _ I  _ saved his fucking life.  _ I  _ got him this far. He wouldn’t be here without me! I don’t need someone to tell me how to fix my relationship!”

George sits silent. He makes note of something on the pad on his lap, then puts his pen down and looks at a spot just over Thomas’ left shoulder. Thomas is grateful for the lack of eye contact.

“I regret it,” he says, and then the tears come in earnest. His voice is thick and cracked when he continues, “I told him I wasn’t ready and then I pushed myself, and now everything is fucked. I uprooted my entire life for him - he doesn’t seem to care anymore. I mean, I’ve been down here for almost a year just piecing things together for him, and meanwhile I quit my job - I got rid of all my furniture - I have no life to move back up to, everything is down here now, all because of him. And that really, really fucking sucks, you know?”

“You experienced a lot of upheaval in order to be here for someone you love,” says George.

“And he doesn’t seem to care how hard it all was.” Thomas refuses to sob. He holds his body tight, shaking with the tension in his shoulders and chest and back and thighs. “He doesn’t say thank you.”

“You feel unappreciated,” George says.

“Yeah,” says Thomas. “And I want him to know how fucking hard this is for me. Like, I chose this, but it’s not where I expected I’d be. I pay for everything, you know that? All the meds he takes that aren’t covered. All the food he can’t afford. I pay for him to see Martha. It’s not like I’m struggling - like, I can afford to wait a couple more months before finding a new job - but it would be nice if he said thank you once in awhile, you know?”

“It sounds like you’re really frustrated with a lot of his behaviour right now,” says George.

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I keep almost breaking up with him but I don’t  _ want  _ to. I want to be with him, but this isn’t okay. It’s not right.” Thomas drags the back of his hand over his eyes. “It’s not  _ fair.” _

“It’s not,” George agrees.

“So why is it happening to us?” asks Thomas.

“That,” says George softly, “is one question I can’t answer for you.”

 

* * *

 

Thomas and James walk into the apartment in silence. Thomas is carrying a backpack stuffed with fresh vegetables and a takeout box crammed full of avocado rolls. James is leaning heavily on his elbow crutches. Thomas tosses the backpack and the takeout container on the kitchen counter, then goes to support James, and is met with a snappy, “don’t touch me right now.”

“Okay,” says Thomas. He tries to keep his voice light.

“I’m still pissed from this morning,” James says.

“Okay,” Thomas repeats.

“Stop fucking - saying that.”

“Saying what?”

“Okay,” says James. “Okay okay okay. You say it to everything and it sounds like you’re not listening.”

“I am listening,” Thomas says.

“Doesn’t seem like it to me.”

“So what should I say instead?” asks Thomas.

“Just say whatever you want,” James snaps.

“See,” says Thomas, “that’s not fair. I don’t know what you want me to say. You know I’m not good at this stuff.”

“Figure it out,” James says.

“Why are you so upset at me?” Thomas asks. “I want to know what I’m doing wrong because apparently I’m just - doing really bad with you lately. And I don’t understand it, and it scares me, because I never know what will set you off.”

“Do you hate me yet?” asks James. There’s a funny edge in his voice.

“The - what? No, I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”

James collapses onto the couch and puts his face in his hands. “That would make this so much  _ easier, _ Thomas. Why can’t you ever do what you’re supposed to to?”

“Make what easier?” asks Thomas.

James doesn’t respond.

“Jemmy,” says Thomas, and he kneels in front of James and takes his hands. “Make  _ what  _ easier?”

“All of this,” James says finally. “Dying. If you hate me -”

“Oh, baby, no,” says Thomas, and then he repeats it: “No, no, no. No. Nothing will make it any better.”

“I’m not gonna make it to thirty,” says James.

“Your doctor didn’t say that,” says Thomas. “It’s only two years. You can make it two more years, right? Easy peasy.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not  _ supposed  _ to make it to thirty,” James says.

“What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t supposed to be born,” says James. “I’ve been walking around dead for years. My body just doesn’t know it yet.”

There’s a strange tone in James’ voice that Thomas doesn’t like. It’s a little too high, a little too harsh. “You’re alive, baby,” he says, and he kisses James on the palm of one hand.

“Not where it counts,” says James, and that’s when he collapses into tears.

“Can I touch you?” asks Thomas, and James nods, gasping through his sobs. Thomas gets up off his knees and perches on the edge of the couch, pulling James into his arms. James sobs against his chest and knots his hands in the fabric of Thomas’ t-shirt. 

“I wasn’t supposed to be here,” James chokes out.

That’s when Thomas kisses the top of his head and says, “can we go to therapy together? I want to get this straightened out. All the fighting, all the shitty feelings. I want to fix it all between us.”

“Why?” asks James.

“Because,” says Thomas, “I love you.”

“Is that enough?” James asks.

Thomas just shrugs and says, “it has to be.”

 

* * *

 

That night, when Thomas gets into bed, James rolls over and cuddles up close.

“Thank you,” he says. “For not giving up on me.”

Thomas rubs his back in long, slow strokes. “I could never give up on you, Jellybean. You know that, right? Nothing’s gonna make me quit.”

“No matter how hard I try?” asks James.

“Nah. You’re not annoying enough to scare me off.”

James slips his hand under Thomas’ t-shirt and puts his palm flat on his bare chest. It’s intimate but not sexual - there’s no desire in the touch, just a moment of connection. “I don’t think I want to try scaring you off anymore,” he says.

“Good. Now go to sleep. I’m gonna take you out for a walk tomorrow.” Thomas bites back a yawn.

“Okay,” says James.

“Okay,” Thomas echoes.

He closes his eyes.

It’s the best night’s sleep he’s had in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos revive me from my accidental hiatus. chat to me at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)


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